


(Happy) Father's Day

by jugandbettsdetectiveagency



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Father's Day, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 17:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11235993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugandbettsdetectiveagency/pseuds/jugandbettsdetectiveagency
Summary: Jughead never was fond of Father's Day





	(Happy) Father's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Slight AU with the show's timeline at the beginning, just to get it to line up with the holiday.

The Father’s Day celebrations had been tense in the Cooper household. Alice had bought Hal a DVD and some thick knit socks, wrapped them up in blue and silver paper, complete with neat bow, and signed _love Polly and Betty_  on the tag in perfect cursive. 

The four of them sat, stiff like automatons, around the dining room table, high watt smiles plastered to each of their faces as they enjoyed a Sunday roast, followed by peach pie, with a side of menial conversation. The skin of Betty’s palms ached as they lay, clenched and bleeding, against the fabric of her sky blue sundress, her jaw tired from grinding her teeth. 

Relief washed over her when Alice finally let them go for the evening, after they’d huddled around the TV watching _Casablanca_  and Hal had drifted into a heat induced slumber in his arm chair, whiskey glass tipping precariously in his limp hand and threatening to spill onto the freshly cleaned carpet. 

Betty knocked briskly on the door to the Andrews’ home, rocking back on her heels as she waited for someone to appear.

“Hi, Betty,” Fred answered, greeting her with his typical, warm smile. Betty grinned.

“Hey, Mr Andrews. Is Jughead home?” she asked, peering vaguely over his shoulder, that she might by chance catch a glimpse of a familiar beanie and flannel. Fred shook his head with a sad smile. 

“Sorry. Took off early this morning - I think the significance of the day kind of got to him,” Fred told her, lines around his mouth deepening with his frown. Betty’s eyebrows knit together. She’d been so focused on her own discomfort about the enforced celebrations of the holiday that she hadn’t even thought that Jughead might be having a hard time. Guilt flooded her stomach, settling uncomfortably in the pit as she nodded and thanked Fred, taking the steps down from the porch with downcast eyes. 

To her, and almost everyone in Riverdale now, Fred was as good as a surrogate father to Jughead. Content to see him as such, Betty had subconsciously assumed that Jughead would celebrate with the Andrews’. The traditions were always the same, Betty had witnessed them from over the road for as long as she could remember: up early for coffee and doughnuts, an afternoon of fishing down at Sweet Water, then burgers and milkshakes at _Pop’s_  on the way home before crashing on the couch watching football. While it wasn’t very _Jughead_ , she had to admit, Betty just expected her boyfriend to take part. Clearly, he was more affected than he liked to let on, always the lone wolf. 

When her texts went unanswered she tried calling, all to no avail. His regular booth at _Pop’s_  was cold and unoccupied. Betty huffed out a sigh of frustration, rubbing the dull throbbing that had begun behind her left eyebrow as she wracked her brains. 

The trailer park was a last ditch attempt before she went home, sure he wouldn’t be there. But then a dark shadow beneath a heavy oak tree caught her eye, cast into silhouette by the fading pink and orange rays of the sun, and she approached slowly, footsteps muffled by the long grass of the bank. 

Jughead jumped as he felt cool fingers lace through his but he didn’t turn his eyes away from his dad’s trailer, from the direction his gaze had been set in for the past twenty minutes. The delicate breeze picked up and washed her scent of hazy lilacs over him and he felt his shoulders relax marginally. 

“Have you been here long?” her soft voice asked, carried on the wind. He shook his head, heart hammering in his chest. 

“A while,” he replied, squeezing her fingers. She tightened her grip in response.

“We could go in, if you want. I could come with you,” she soothed, her tone bright and full of misplaced optimism. Jughead blew out a humourless laugh through his nostrils, feeling the mixture of anger and longing bubble slowly under his skin. He shook his head again, unable to open his mouth and let out his frustrations, afraid that they would sound too much like a sob. 

Betty’s other hand trailed up the length of his arm before gripping it tightly, her head coming to rest on his shoulder as she shuffled closer to him. 

“Okay,” she said, content to wait with him for as long as he needed. 

***

“I can do this.” It’s what Jughead had been distractedly mumbling since they’d woken up that morning beneath Betty’s pink, floral sheets. She kissed him sweetly, running a hand through his unruly dark waves as she told him that yes, he could. Jughead wrapped his fingers around hers to hide their trembling as he tried with all his will to believe the words. 

Jughead had climbed through her window the night before, eyes suspiciously red rimmed and puffy, slipping between her sheets as Betty tucked his head beneath her chin and listened to the sounds of his shuddering breaths as they blew cool air against her throat. 

Father’s Day, she knew, was his second least favourite holiday of the year - after Mother’s Day. But in a way, this day was worse, because the evidence of why Jughead was currently in a foster home, without his real family, was only mere minutes away, rather than out of sight somewhere in Ohio. His relationship with FP was out of reach and all too close, pressing a heavy weight against Jughead’s breastbone with every day that slipped away before the day arrived. 

Betty snuck Jughead down the stairs when the sound of frying bacon and the radio from the bathroom signalled the coast was clear, heading out of the front door behind him without so much as a word of goodbye to her family. She knew Alice would be furious upon her return, but something told Betty that the explanation for her absence would have her mother glancing down at her plate with tightly sealed lips later that night. 

“I don’t think I can do this, Betty,” Jughead whispered, hands clenched around the truck’s steering wheel where they sat, parked, in front of the wire fencing of the facility. Betty reached over to gently uncurl his fingers, watching the colour flood back into his white knuckles. 

“One step at a time,” she reminded him softly, pushing his curls back from his forehead. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, shutting out the image of the jail that awaited his entry. This is not where he should be on Father’s Day, signing in and handing over his personal effects before sitting in a dirty sterile room for his dad to shuffle in wearing an orange jumpsuit. It just wasn’t. 

Betty knew how much Jughead needed to do this, even if his legs weren’t cooperating with him right at this moment. He loved FP, that much was always clear. And even if he hadn’t said it out loud yet Betty knew he had forgiven him his crimes, his years of absence. No matter how wary he was of being hurt, Jughead struggled _not_ to see the best in those he cared about. 

He hadn’t even realised Betty had hopped out of the truck until she was opening his door for him, holding out her hand for him to take once more. _One step at a time,_ he heard her words again as he let out a shaky breath, willing his legs to carry him towards the door.

“Name of the inmate you’re here to see?” the grim faced woman at the desk asked him, barely flicking her eyes up to Jughead’s face before settling them back on the screen in front of her.

“Um, Forsythe Jones,” Jughead replied, name feeling foreign on his tongue. He signed up, collected his badge and handed over his phone and wallet. Betty took his keys, leaning up to kiss his pale cheek, stroking her thumb over the spot affectionately as she told him she’d be right here, waiting for him. 

The chair he sat in was too hard, the other people in the room making the visit too impersonal. He shifted constantly, not quite sure where to settle his eyes. The familiar face of his father, rough and worn, coming through the door held his attention. FP sat in front of him with an apologetic smile, hands clasped together on the table top. 

“Son,” he said, voice gruff. Jughead took in the shell of his father, neither guilty nor innocent, and felt the sting of moisture hit the corner of his eyes. He lifted an uncertain hand, hovering in the air for a moment, debating, before setting it determinedly over FP’s. 

“Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”

***

“Betty, if you’re not well I don’t have to go,” Jughead worried as his blue eyes followed her nervously when she emerged out of their bathroom. She shook her head, skin pale and covered in a light sheen of sweat, as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. 

“I’m fine, Juggie. Besides, you have to go - seeing FP on Father’s Day is your tradition,” she mumbled, exhausted, into the cotton of his shirt. His hand came up automatically to rub soothing circles against her back, smiling into the top of her head as she arched into his touch. 

“He’ll be out by the next one,” Jughead reminded her, unable to keep the hint of excitement out of his voice. “I’m sure he’d understand _one_ missed day in ten years,” he tried to reason, knowing that Betty would not settle, nonetheless. 

“Go!” she insisted, all but shoving him towards the door. “Tell him I said hi,” she added with a weak smile. Jughead held her eyes for a moment longer, leaning in to press a kiss to her damp forehead before relenting. 

“I love you. Text me if you need anything,” he told her firmly as he walked backwards down their driveway towards his truck. She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself as she watched him from the doorway.

“I love you, too,” she called with a wave. 

His visit went how they usually did, with Jughead catching FP up on everything he was missing. This time, however, there was something simmering beneath the surface for both of them, knowing that, because of good behaviour, the next time they would be celebrating this day it would be in the comfort of their own home - in freedom. 

“Betty?” Jughead called out as soon as he was through the door, setting his keys in the bowl. When there was no answer an indescribable tightness clenched in his chest. “Betts, where are you?” he asked, trying to keep his panic at bay. 

“Juggie?” A flood of relief hit him at the sound of her voice, following it until he found her in the kitchen, stood awkwardly against the counter. 

“What is it?” he asked, brow furrowed as he watched her bite the corner of her lower lip, a telltale sign that she was nervous. He glanced down at her hand, thankful to see that it was flattened out against the front of her thigh. 

“I... I have something I need to tell you,” she whispered, corners of her lips tilting ever so slightly upwards.

“What?” he asked, unable to stop the nervous laugh that permeated the word. Silently, she handed him the white stick, little pink plus staring back at him. His lips parted, thudding in his chest intensifying as he took in the new information. “Are we...?” he breathed, unable to finish his sentence as a grin took over his face. Betty giggled, nodding frantically as she watched his reaction. 

“Oh, Betty,” he sighed, rushing forwards to scoop her up in his arms. 

***

Betty watched with a contented smile as Jughead held the bottle to their son’s lips, FP sitting next to them on the couch with one of his fingers trapped in the little baby’s tight grasp. 

“He’s got such a big appetite,” Jughead mumbled in awe as tiny sighs and swallows filled the air. FP chuckled, wiggling his finger slightly. 

“Well, Junior here is a Jones man. We’ve always known how to eat well,” he grinned, tapping Jughead’s shoulder teasingly. Jughead rolled his eyes before settling them back on his child, unable to look away for long. 

“That they do,” Betty chimed in from across the living room with a laugh, earning herself a playful glare from her husband. Jughead placed the now empty bottle on the coffee table, shifting their son until he was propped against his shoulder, patting his back softly. Betty moved from her spot, picking the bottle up before heading to the kitchen. As she passed behind the sofa she leant down, pressing a kiss to the top of Jughead’s hair, brushing her fingers through it gently. 

“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy,” she whispered in his ear before she moved away, catching the happy flush on his cheeks as he took in her words. Jughead had no doubt anymore, never would again, that today would forever be his favourite holiday.


End file.
